The Fool and I
by Celebnaur
Summary: No matter what you are doing, we seem to be pulled together, don't we? And that pull may just very lead us to the edges of economic collapse and the ceasing of our existences.
1. Are Dying

AN: Okay, if you are my regular readers and reading this, then let me say that I am losing interest in writing for the Hetalia fandom, for several reasons that I will not rant about in the AN. If you honestly want to know why (lol why would you) feel free to ask. If anything, I may delve into the realm of HomeStuck fanfiction but that's for another day. The point is, don't expect much from me anytime soon. I am still active on my deviantART, but writing just isn't the same. Anyway, now that that little thingy is outta the way, this is a thank you for the support I have gotten over the summer and something to leave you off on since school will most likely force me into hiatus anyway. Thanks to Hymno for introducing me to the lovely song 'Dårarna och jag' and inspiring this. Does anyone think I should practice beyond first person? I can do third person too... I think the only warning for this is that this pushes the factor of America's possible economic collapse and suggests what would be going on if America was actually dying. The chapters' titles will correspond with the fic's title, if that helps explain why they actually have titles. I will post one of these every two days until all three are up.

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><p>I watched the fool sway happily to the sound of the playing radio, his hips in sync with the off-key whistles. He was sorting through the books, his hair sticking up in several places that were not normal for him. The sunlight that came in from the window beside him was missing his body and landing cleanly on the floor. I questioned why he was acting so happy.<p>

He knew he was weakening; I knew it too. It had become the object of many fights in the past couple weeks, one of which happened just two hours ago. It broke my heart slightly that he was still himself through it all. I questioned why I even bothered arguing with him. Sure, the thought that his collapse could very well bring about mine was something for us to talk about, but why bother getting each other angry when this very well may be our final days. I shook my head at the thought; I was becoming too emotional again.

His whistles turned into melodious mutters, the few lines he knew to the song coming out somewhat embarrassedly. I was certain he did not know of my presence, which made me question just what kept him from busting out into improvised lyrics. Maybe he was finally letting the situation affect him. It felt like something was clenching inside my chest, causing me to sigh.

America quickly grabbed a book and turned around, smiling.

"Oh hey, England, how long have you been there?"

"O-only a few moments, love. What are you doing in here?" He raised the book slightly, glancing at it before looking at me. The light that was pouring on the wooden floors was eating away at his back as the rest just poured into the room. My breath caught as he just stood in front of the window and opened the book up. The radio changed from the melancholy song to something that was equally depressing; the vocals of a female in some Latin language, once again confusing me as to why America was even in here. He was supposed to be listening to that fast contemporary stuff with a controller in his hands.

"Well... if you want me to leave you be for some peace, I can..." I said softly, turning around. Multiple parts of my body hurt as I turned my shoulder to him and took a step out of the room.

"Wait, England. Don't leave." I looked over my shoulder and saw his eyes. They were that same blue they had been for three centuries, but yet it seemed like something was missing. I dared say it was the liveliness, but that would be too difficult to admit. "Come read to me, please?" My eyes widened for a moment and I sucked in my lip to keep back the laugh. It would not have been a laugh of mocking, or of happiness. Rather, it would have been one of me expressing just how much my chest ached in a rather stupidly ironic way of showing emotion.

"Ah, I-" I stopped speaking and just shook my head, a bitter smile on my face. Trotting over to the couch that was in the library, I watched as America grinned and darted to it as well.

"Thank you, England," he said sing-song whilst dropping himself beside me. He handed me the book and leant against my side with his smile burying into my shoulder. I sighed again and looked at him, reminding myself that time was a precious thing... Even to nations.

"You're hopeless, you know that?" I said, kissing the top of his head soon afterwards. He chuckled into my arm, gesturing that I open up the book and read. "_The Yellow Fairy Book_... Hmm, interesting choice there, America." He simply laughed again and began humming to the music. "Okay... Let's see..." I opened the musty book up, the century old pages fragile and fading in my hands. It was a rather nice feeling. I began reading the first story, America's eyes now closed as he listened, when something nagged me.

We were both dying; a couple older than any human's marriage, sitting on a sofa and doing slow, gentle things. We were enjoying our last few moments, which very well may be decades, with a book in our possession and a radio playing slow music. Oh, how did I get dragged into this? I glanced at America for a moment and saw his softly smiling face on my shoulder.

And then the realisation hit me. Whatever America did, I would follow suit; making sure that we were not separated in any event. I was clingy and obsessive in ways that I did not even consider before. And I would follow him everywhere, whether I wanted to or not. And that most likely included the fact that death was watching us both contently as I read the words with gentle breaths.


	2. Are in Love

AN: Written to Awakening by Secret Garden, I swear I am such a sap at times that it disturbs me.

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><p>"So tell me what we are doing?" I asked, glancing at the mess on the kitchen counter.<p>

"Something I do not believe we have done together in a while..." I stared curiously at America, the physical signs of aging already making him look closer to my age rather than the adolescence he had appeared of only two decades ago. I winced when he coughed several times and began arranging the many items strewn out on the cabinet. I glanced at the jars and containers.

"America, we have cooked together many times..." He looked up at me with a confused look before walking out of the room and returning with a backpack. He began pushing the plastic containers into the backpack and then looked up at me.

"Go use the restroom, it's gonna be a pretty long trip," he muttered, a smirk playing on his lip. He trotted out of the kitchen and I could hear him starting his truck up the next moment. Well that was odd.

I shook my head and walked out of the kitchen, making my way to the bathroom. My gaze had been on the ground in front of me, but it was ripped up to the wall of the hallway when I noticed his prized bomber jacket was not sitting on the table of World War II memorabilia along with the medals and photos. I tried not to look at the pictures of us for too long, but I swallowed harshly at the one of him, France, and me all sitting on some of the rubble in Essen. We were smiling happily, with America's arm over my shoulder. We had won the war several days ago, and were reevaluating areas. America had claimed that the weather in Essen had been beautiful at the time, so we we broke away from the the rest of the men with a lively camera boy following after us. Then France opted for a photo on some of the rubble, and of course America wanted one as well.

I picked up the framed picture and stared at it a little more longingly than I should have. When the truck outside honked, I set it down and quickly ran to the restroom.

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><p>We pulled onto the cracked cement with a squeak of the brakes and a dust cloud following behind us. America hopped out of the truck, practically ripping the keys out with him.<p>

"An... airfield?" I asked when I felt the warm air hit my shoulders. I glanced around and noticed that aside from the small hangar and cracked runway, the place was almost devoid of any sign of technology; the surrounding scenery a rather depressing field of grass and wildflowers. I snapped my attention to over my shoulder at the sound of shuddering metal. America was lifting the hangar door using his strength rather than the mechanics that would open it otherwise. I raised my eyebrow in expectation of a response.

"Eeeh, the keypad wasn't workin'." He shrugged and grunted when he gave one final push onto the door. It flew upwards and completely opened, revealing a small white aeroplane within. "Not as strong as I used t'be..." he muttered, tiny hints of frustration on his face. That one sentence was yet another sad reminder of his already fading existence. Secession and no value to his currency had caused his health to decline. It was in a rather consistent pace, but so much had happened in twenty years that it was only days to us.

He looked over at me and grinned whilst pointing at the car. "Grab the backpack, will ya?"

I sighed and turned around only to quickly locate the item and precariously pull it out. I walked into the hangar and saw America already evaluating the plane; looking in areas and flicking switches I had minimal knowledge regarding. He looked up at me and extended one hand, the other staying on some dial in the cockpit.

"Toss it, please?" I nodded and threw the sack to him before quickly pocketing my hands into my trouser pockets. The hangar was somewhat intimidating, with the high ceilings that seemed a little too excited to have company. The walls were covered in calendars and posters from decades ago, the most recent dating from 2003.

"What is this place, America?" I asked, a little too quietly to sound sure of myself. He laughed from the aeroplane, the walls happily rebounding the sound so that it surrounded me.

"It's a private hangar built in the nineties," he shouted, eliciting a frown from me.

"I could have estimated that much," I returned. He simply chuckled again, causing my chest to hurt slightly.

"I used t'know the family that ran this place..." There was a soft whirring noise. "They moved away about two decades ago, leaving the place in my possession. I don't get t'visit it that often though." He hopped from out of the cockpit and and walked up to me, his arms spread apart slightly as he evaluated just how vast the area was.

"Sure, it's dusty and stuff, but I like how far out of the way it is. The family actually had two hangars, the other even more reclusive than this one." I looked at him curiously as he walked over to a workbench not too far off that was covered in various buckets and rags. He sighed and glanced at one of the walls nearby, the picture of some group from the 90's smiling back at him.

"Is that where we are going?" I asked. There was silence for a few moments as he just continued staring contentedly at the many items in the room.

I coughed to bring his attention back.

"Hm? Ah, yeah, sorry 'bout that..." I hummed and walked up to him. "Yeah, we're going to that other airfield." He turned around slowly and pat my shoulder once. "Lemme just go grab my jacket."

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><p>I looked out the window of the plane, the sound entirely too loud to permit any kind of conversation with America. I suppose it was just as well off that way; it did not seem appropriate to talk anyway for some reason. I saw the trees below us turn abruptly into a field that was tinted yellow, no doubt from flowers. The shadow of the plane was racing us on the ground, scaring away several deer in the grass. I glanced forward and saw the second hangar America had mentioned and waited contentedly as he brought the machine down to the ground.<p>

It was a bumpy landing, the runway filled with cracks that harboured plants within them. When the plane was parked, America turned around and reached for the backpack that was sitting by my legs. He grinned at me for a few seconds and then popped the hatch open, maintaining his playful eye contact with me. He snickered and hung his legs out of the cockpit, his grin now a somewhat mischievous smirk.

"Well then, mister, only one thing to do now," he drawled, a Southern accent tinting his words rather nicely. I really did need to admit to him that his accents were actually somewhat pleasant.

"And what would that be?" I replied, switching to Southern as well. I do not think he could tell much difference between my accents, though. He just laughed and ruffled my hair several times before tossing the backpack into the field, still retaining eye contact.

"A dinner on the grass and then a show of lightning bugs." I snorted and flashed a look to the backpack sitting in the swaying grass.

"And I am guessing that that was our food, wasn't it?" America burst into laughter before flinging himself out of the plane.

"Hell yeah it was, now c'mon and get your old ass out here and join me!"

I rolled my eyes and began climbing over the pilot's seat, watching him whistle and tap his foot on the runway. I noticed that he had apparently put his bomber jacket at some point in the flight, the brown leather glimmering in the sunlight.

"Aren't you warm in that?" I asked whilst clambering out of the plane. He blew a raspberry and snickered.

"Naaah, and if I was, than you would be dying in that dress shirt and jacket you have goin' on." I stuttered, trying to think of something to quip at him, but then he turned around and just chuckled. "C'mon, we got here later than I had wanted us to." I shook my head and followed him through the grass to the backpack.

"And was this just an impulse of yours or..."

"Actually, I've had this idea for quite a while. Just never knew when to actually go through with it." He fell onto his stomach and rolled until he was pressed up against the backpack. "Whadd'ya want to eat. I have sandwiches... salad... some weird white stuff France gave to me..."

"France cooked for you?" America nodded, still engrossed with picking through the items.

"France made all of this... In fact he offered to cook to me more often. Not that I'm complainin'." I swallowed harshly and and sat down, my legs pressed against my chest. So France wanted to be a bigger part of his life now too. The two had always been some weird forme of friendship, but no one really knew to what depth. Obviously it had not been deep enough for France to be complacent with if he was taking extra effort to be kind to America.

I looked into my lap after the feeling of weight made me do so. There was a quaint, little sandwich sitting there.

"I think he said that was horse meat, so you can have it. You Europeans seem to flock over his weird-ass food anyway," he said, already tearing into some other queer food that was sitting in a plastic container. I rolled my eyes.

"Thanks, love, for giving me some of France's shitty cooking," I muttered, picking the food item up. He laughed several times before poking my leg.

"I know you love his stuff, so stop being so damn cranky."

"That's just as bad as accusing me of liking your thrice-damned fast food." America cocked his head to the side with a silly smile.

"But ya do. You told me so one day when-"

"Yeah, yeah, eat whatever the hell it is you have, America," I said, waving him off. I did not hate France's cooking, but I questioned where America had heard that I loved it. Obviously that person would have to be reprimanded for their bigotry. Oh if only I had said that out loud; America sure would have gotten a laugh out of it.

"Fine fine, you cranky old man..." he muttered, playful undertones hinting at his words.

After about half an hour of us just idly watching the grass sway, America zipped up the backpack and slid on the ground until his side was pressed against mine. I almost told him to move away slightly and give me some much wanted space, but his face had been staring so sternly to the west that I dared not to. It appeared that he was looking at the sunset, but there were too many trees in the distance for that.

It was not until there was a quick flashing of light did America tilt forwards slightly and gasp.

"Blimey, America, you act like you've never seen a firefly before," I said, smiling slightly at his attentiveness. He snorted at me only to return to watching the air. I saw one appear near the plane and then another right between America and me. America saw it to, for the next moment his face was near my shoulder since the little bugger had landed there. I watched him amusedly, although my expression read the exact opposite, as he just observed the thing open its wings several times only to just climb up my arm.

"I think the last time we did this was in-"

"June of ninety-eight. You took me to Annapolis, Maryland and tried to stuff as many of the poor blokes into one jar as possible. It was so fucking hot that you proposed the idea of 'stripping down until our hides were able to be tanned'. That idea was dejected-" I looked down at America he was mock asleep against my shoulder, even making obnoxiously synthetic snores. "You twit! I was just elaborating!"

"Nobody asked ya to, England," he replied cheekily. I frowned and looked away from the still slightly childish eyes. Yes, America was aging rapidly (for a Nation's standards), but I was surprised at just how much youth he retained.

"Nobody asked you to be a twit either," we both said in sync. I glanced down at him, my eyebrows upturned in irritation.

"Very funny, America..." I said, rolling my eyes as he just giggled. He poked my cheek near the edge of my mouth earning him an apathetic stare.

"Smile for me, England."

"What?"

"Remember when I was young... You would take me down to Georgia in August... And we'd sit in the pastures that belonged to some of the farmers and just watch as the skies had the 'moving stars'?" I snickered and tried to push away his still prodding finger. "You would sit there and smile as I would try to catch them in my hands."

"And you would always return with a squashed insect on your fingers, asking me where the star went..." I finished for him. The firefly that had been on my shoulder flew off, detracting America's attention for a moment until it landed in the grass.

"So if I catch one, will ya smile for me?" I snickered and pushed his hand off my cheek.

"No, love. I-" My voice stopped when he brought his face in front of mine, his cheeks puffed out slightly as he just smiled at me.

"Can you please just smile?" he asked quietly. "You really don't do it enough, and I really am craving to see that little smile right now," he said sing-song.

"You crave a whole lot of things America, most of which don't flatter me that my smile is included amongst them." He pouted and turned his eyes away from me to a nearby firefly.

"Oh c'mon, can ya please just smile for me?"

"Give me a reason to that does not involve insects." America pursed his lips and knitted his eyebrows in concentration.

"Yeah, okay, fine." He grabbed my shoulders and grinned softly. He leant forward and quickly kissed me before pulling back with a large grin. "Smile?"

"Hmmm, not yet, love."

"Ah, c'mon, England, you're killin' me here," he groaned, although he looked like he was on the verge of cracking up. So he repeated the gesture, this time holding it for slightly more. When he started giggling into the kiss, I pushed him away.

"Alright, alright, you child, are you happy?" I asked with a grin. He laughed once and then poked the side of my smiling mouth.

"Yeah, I'm cool now." He continued laughing, although he was trying to suppress the mania, and rolled so that his head was resting in my lap. I had no idea what he was staring at, most likely the orange sky, but I just stared at his content face.

I watched the very person that so many actually did not bother to understand. I could not understand why he was hated the way he was. Yes, he was annoying, but to be hated for something his leaders did- something all Nations were susceptible to- really dominated how he was perceived. France, Canada, Australia and I, along with Israel and a few others, were probably the only ones that had any respect for him; although I had been less than prone to admit that I did. He and his people did not choose many of the wars he was forced into, and yet he fought valiantly until he either could no longer combat, or he won. It was somewhat admirable.

He did not choose to have his economy shattered. To have huge parts of who he was part from him, leaving him slightly more frail as more departed. He did not choose to face death after living such a short life in terms of Nations.

I do not know why it was that some nations were celebrating his impending death. With his death would come the loss of many other things, amongst them most likely me as well. But what his death impended, was an eternal loss of those laughs he had given me in the hangar, the grins he had shared in the plane, the signs of affection he had gifted in the field, and the blue eyes that shone through it all.

I berated myself for thinking such sappy and emotional things, but then I reconsidered. Those things would be permanently gone, a breed all their own extinct. And yet, he made sure that I was the one that was able to enjoy them the most


	3. Are Seperated

AN: Just to clear some things up, I do have several more Hetalia ideas to pop out, and I will finish my multichaps, but I just won't be so... enthusiastic? I don't know, but I am still writing for Hetalia.

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><p>I was reading the book, not really paying attention to the voices in the background. Then again, I was not really reading either, just making mental notes of the stains on each page. The television broadcast was the same stuff I had known for the past 7 months, and what France was saying did not really matter. I glanced away from the book in reaction to him prodding my shoulder.<p>

"Quit it, France," I muttered, swinging the book lightly in his direction. He frowned and moved several inches away from me.

"Can you not even yell at me properly since you cannot listen to me so?" he asked somewhat melodramatically. I rolled my eyes and flashed a glare at him.

"Remind me why you are even here, France," I said, now irritated. He scoffed and wrapped his arm around my shoulders.

"Your prime minister still thinks you need a friend here with you." I deadpanned at him.

"Then why the hell are you here?" I grumbled.

"Ah, there is the cranky lutin I know!" I winced at the French, even if it was just a single word.

"Well please leave then now that you got your insult, you filthy woman."

"Oh! Another one!"

I groaned and returned my attention to the book, trying to block out the giggles France was giving off. After a few moments of his laughter only getting stronger, I slammed the book shut and glared venomously at him. He stopped, a final snort elicited, before he cleared his throat and turned to the television.

"And colonisation of the remaining land is still-" France turned the channel.

"Turn that back," I muttered.

"Is it healthy to watch those constantly?" he inquired, flipping the channel back.

"Doesn't really matter... He's been gone for almost a year..." France hummed, keeping the controller pointed at the screen.

"Although a newer confederacy has been founded, vast amounts of land are unkempt still. No official governments established, these almost city-states are surviving on their own with personal currencies and-"

"Hmm... Maybe we could pick up colonisatio-"

"No, France. We both know that that is not a good idea." He raised his eyebrows and nodded.

For several more moments we heard the report switch from talking about the remnant of the States to something about local crime.

"Mon Dieu, we are old..." France muttered. I glanced at him with curiosity.

"I beg your pardon?" He looked at me with a grin.

"We outlived America and many nations are younger than us... It is a weird thought, no?"

"I suppose so... I mean... He lived for four centuries. That is not terrible..." My throat clenched, my mind telling me I was walking on eggshells.

"Hmm, but even we are nearing our end."

"Indeed we are."

We were silent for a few moments until France sighed and looked into his lap.

"Does it disturb you?"

"That we are dying?" I hummed in thought. "Not really... Twelve-hundred years has been an awfully long time. And you have more on your age."

"That is not what I meant, but I agree with you." He swore under his breath and turned the television off. "I meant... That America came after us and parted before us. That he was with you for only a fraction of your life."

I bit my lip, my eyes stinging.

"Ah... Well, I suppose it was odd. You'd think he'd outlive us," I said, laughing hollowly at the end. "He was so vibrant and full of life... But his own stupidity got the better of him."

"Was there anything you wish you could have done with him before he passed?" I glared at France.

"What are you, my fucking psychologist?"

"Just trying to console a friend... You said you were over his passing, but I suppose you are not."

"Since when are we friends? God, France, have some damned tact..." I froze. Dear Lord, why did I say that. France pursed his lips and stared intently at me.

"I haven't heard you tell someone to have tact in quite a while." I turned away from him and rubbed my eyes.

"I am sorry for bursting like that. I-I guess that you are right."

"Of course I am," he said smugly. I almost glared at him had it not been for the fact that my eyes were actually hurting pretty badly. "Look, it is nothing to be ashamed of... I too am still in sorrow about our dear friend."

"I don't think you understand, France..."

"I probably don't, but-"

"Oh God, and those that celebrated when he deteriorated away. How the hell could they-" I interrupted myself with a choke on my breath.

"England..."

"And I never told him just how much I actually liked his regional accents... And that he was really intelligent, just immature and daft... A-and-"

"Do we need to change the subject?"

"No... No, I am fine..." That was a lie. But I would be damned if France saw me in some state like some bleeding housewife that lost her spouse.

"Fine then..."

I nodded and for several more moments we sat on the couch, me trying to dry my eyes with my hand, France sighing every ten seconds.

I was no where near fine. There were no more obnoxious laughs in my ears to annoy me; no more shouting voices to wake me from the kitchen downstairs; no more embraces that nearly crushed me. No one would be able to see his conceited grins or his visionary plans any more. He was not there to comfort others or help them with his stupid hero ideals.

"Ah, damn it," I muttered, my thoughts getting the best of me.

"Something wrong?" France asked, his attention shifting to me slightly.

I laughed a few times even though my eyes were showing anything but happiness. "France, do you remember when America chose me over you because I was sulking? Or when he threw you clear across a field when he was still a child."

"Ah, yes I do, are the me-"

"Or when he joked, and said that your sure were something pitiful if you had to have your military trained by his; him being so much younger. O-or how even after me being at war with him twice..." I froze for a moment, my eyes widening slightly.

"He still chose to be with me..." France shifted in his seat slightly, moving the tiniest bit closer to me.

"Oh God... All those times he said that he had always loved me... You don't think that when he was young that-?"

"It is... a possibility," France offered. I blanched slightly, the thought something that had plagued me for the past couple of decades. America had hinted at it so much, but I guess I had more or less not wanted to believe it.

"Oh dear Lord..." I muttered. "And I was always so rude to him..."

"You were just yourself... And he seemed to enjoy the banter, no?"

"Why did he love me through all that...?" I whispered to myself. France set a hand on my shoulder, but I swatted it away. I did not want France of all people to comfort me.

I wanted America.

"Love is crazy at times..." he offered.

I pressed the palms of my hands against my eyes and sucked in a shaky breath.

Indeed it was crazy. It was also painful, extremely so.

"You two will see one another again," France reassured.

"Stop giving me hopes, you imbecile..." I muttered. France bit at his lip and turned away, not knowing what to do.

But I did hope that anyway; it was for a split moment before I crushed it. Out of all the times America and I had to part from one another, the permanency of this departure made it that much more bleak.

And so I sat on the couch of my main room, a little yellow book in my lap, dying. Just the thought that I was was not nearly as comfortable or calm as I had been when he was still here.

"I am not giving you hopes, England. You will see him again."

"I doubt it..."

"Fine then, if you want to remain your bitter old self, you may. I am just trying to console you a little." I scowled and turned to him.

"Well don't. Please, it isn't your job to do it, so I do not need you to just because our bosses wanted you to." France swore again, me now just irritated.

"I suppose kindness is something you only accepted from him anyway..."

"What are you mumbling about now?"

France sighed and stood up, gathering his coat that was on the couch. "I am leaving, England. You told me you did not require me so I shall... what was that phrase he used to say... Ah! Make haste and scram." I winced a little at him.

"If you are going to be bitter, I do not desire to be around while you are so. Especially since you made it so plainly obvious you do not desire me to be here." I scowled at him.

"Fine then, you bleeding troll."

France glanced at me before sighing and shaking his head. "Good bye, England," he muttered, irritation in his words.

"Bye," I replied bluntly. He walked out of the room and exited from the nearby front door, taking enough consideration to not slam it like I expected him to.

When I heard a car start up and then depart, I sighed and fell onto my side.

"Well going, old chap. Just scared away the only person that can really tolerate you..." I snickered; France did not tolerate, he took things with a grimace and an insult in his language. I groaned and rubbed my hand.

I was being bitter and rude though; I was supposed to be stronger in a situation like this. Maybe I was an old man on the inside like America had always said.

I wondered what America would be doing right now if he was still here.

I inhaled sharply and yawned before sitting myself upright and grabbing at my book. I needed to put this away.

So, I stood up and begrudgingly began walking to my library. The halls seemed smaller than usual, the feeling of me getting there much quicker than I estimated nagging at me.

When I opened the oak doors to the room, the click of the handle echoed upon the walls and many dusty books.

"It's filthy in here," I mumbled, the examination a sad truth. I began walking to the shelf the book belonged to and pushed aside space to slide it in, when something shimmering caught my eye.

Immediately below the window nearest me was a table. It had only been there about a year, but yet seemed completely native here. I stepped towards it and glared down.

In the center was a small wooden box with a glass top, revealing the meticulously folded brown leather within.

I hummed and reached for the top of the box, unlatching it more eagerly than I would like to admit. The compressed fabric pushed the lid upwards, already inviting me to take the jacket inside. So I did.

I walked over to the couch and set both the book and America's bomber jacket on the arm before trotting over to the radio not too far off.

I was digging myself a hole and I knew it.

Turning it to a station that always had the classical music, my eyes already began to hurt. It was not the same song with the singing that America had listened to, but it just very well may have been. The melody was familiar anyway, so I began humming to it, swaying my hips slightly.

"Dear Lord, I am a sentimental old fool, aren't I?" I asked nothing in particular. I snickered somewhat sarcastically at myself and walked back to the couch.

No, I did not want to believe we would meet again like France had said. I am not sure I wanted to see him again; one could only take so many departures.

I did want to see him again though.

With a sigh, I picked up the two items and sat down. I hung the heavy jacket over my shoulders and inhaled its scent once before berating myself for being ridiculous. With a shake of my head, I opened the book up and began to read.

I wondered if America would be smiling right now.


End file.
